


Tierno

by DanseDan



Series: Identity Crisis Pasta Villain Gender Fics [2]
Category: Per qualche dollaro in più | For a Few Dollars More (1965)
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, character study except make it horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27276310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanseDan/pseuds/DanseDan
Summary: Such a warm and willing body.(Uh. Here's another pasta villain pornfic. Don't expect anything good lol)
Relationships: El Indio/oc, lmao seduce the man out of his bounty instead of doing the cool action movie thing why don't you, this one could definitely be read as indio/manco if you wanna. make it a spicy au
Series: Identity Crisis Pasta Villain Gender Fics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1979114
Kudos: 3





	Tierno

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!!! This has been in my drafts for a while lol it started as a weird self indulgent thing and then it was almost a whole manco AU fic and then it was. this. enjoy?

He was _tierno_. Not just cute, that prey-like aura so appreciable for its absence amongst men in his line of work- but tender. Soft in places- how long had it been since he’d felt someone so soft? Such a warm and willing body. Worth the risk, and the odd looks from men who knew no better as he stepped to the back of the bordello. Strait-laced, sitting at the piano- the gigolo had a delicate swagger entirely unlike the brazen methods of his fairer-sexed companions. Here, Indio finally felt his namesake was convenient, a sense of authority easily traded in, as he could simply savor a pause, watching the younger man draw the last couple notes of the tango, and in a moment the madam solemnly signed off on the union, and he had the distinct pleasure of seeing him unfold himself from his focused hunch over the keys and step closer, mutely asking for direction.

From his first time meeting those clear, clean eyes- alike in no small part to those of past prey-animals that fell before his knife as sustenance, they fall into a silent pattern, a usual dance.

In bed, Indio doesn't look at him, just touches. Grabs at him- slowly, but still somehow feverish- not scratching, not bruising, barely making a mark. Always from below, always fervently avoiding his gaze- he sees enough, day by day, too often needs to be painfully observant, but here he can find rest. Instead he focuses (perhaps a bit too much, for the gigolo’s vanity) on the softness: the hips, the dip of a paunch-like stomach at the waist and on his skin- rubbing against it like a cat, like he’s marking the younger man with his scent. He tongues at the man’s heartbeat in his neck, feels cold night, cold mouth, hot skin again. Like a man starved in the desert who’s come upon a watering hole, drawing too many droughts too fast. Tastes the clean, soft sweat on him, the lack of dust. Tastes it all over his body- is sustained by it- through licks and ardent kisses, stolen deftly and repeatedly.

Indio doesn’t speak, but he seeks to avoid silence, to produce the ragged breaths and noises at his ears that reassure him in the dark. And in this pursuit his touches are soft, but they are persistent, and they know the trails they travel by even if they come with other names on this new, tender body. Knows where to place pressure, where to skirt lightly, in pursuit of ardent moans and whimpers, breathlessness. Knows to put his tongue to good use even in the silence, to quench himself on the man’s wetness, warmth. The press of a shivering body on his own and the tightening around his fingers more than enough encouragement to keep exploring, push faster, further of the gigolo.

And for him the man is a songbird, or an instrument, and his sweet-toned voice rings out in the small room they lie in together on and on throughout the night. An easy stream of sighs and whispers, all comforting nonsense, coming from pink-tinged lips kissed almost raw. Breathing demands he cannot act on, his soft hands held fast with anything available, most often Indio’s own calloused digits tightening red around offending wrists, rubbing their graceful connections. Leaving him prone, arching into him until the moment of release. The smaller body soft, warm, _tierno_.

And afterwards in the dimming glow of their passions, there are no words, no leaving. Just a deep and soundless sleep, entwined into each other silently, breathing twin breaths.


End file.
